They reach for stones
like it’s instinct.
Like the weight in their hand
makes them righteous
and the target less human.

They speak with certainty,
as if they’ve never
walked broken paths,
never faltered under the weight
of their own decisions.

Their gaze is sharp—
not to see,
but to slice.
They love the spectacle
of someone else’s fall
more than they care
to rise themselves.

Mirrors are scarce
in their world.
Reflection requires silence,
and silence makes room
for truth.

They project.
They accuse.
They declare moral verdicts
from unexamined lives,
building altars out of outrage
while their own foundations crack.

Not once do they pause
to feel the splinters
they’ve long ignored—
the weight they carry,
the pieces they hide.

Redemption isn’t found
in pointing fingers.
It begins in the still moment
when a hand opens
and the stone
hits the ground.